


First Time Caller (Again)

by veritashopian



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Coffeeshop AU, Gen, Human AU, I don’t know anything about musical genres please don’t @ me, M/M, Meet-Cute, Modern AU, References to sazed, Writing Prompt, radio au, taakitz, technically, very vague very brief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-08-04 06:55:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16341965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veritashopian/pseuds/veritashopian
Summary: Kravitz is a DJ who can’t stand the music he has to play. He starts getting calls from a few people- or one really creative person- to break up the monotony. Taylor Swift totally counts as postmodern, right?





	First Time Caller (Again)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Weevil0707](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Weevil0707).
  * Inspired by [Long Time Listener, First Time Caller](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15752469) by [Weevilo707](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Weevilo707/pseuds/Weevilo707). 



> Loosely based on this post on tumblr (will insert link when possible) and posted with permission 
> 
> http://kravkalackin.tumblr.com/post/176505569873/long-time-listener-first-time-caller-for-the

“Well listeners, it’s that time again. We’re takin’ a break from our regularly scheduled programming to take requests from all you knowledgeable music fans out there. Dial me up quick-sharp because KRVD is at your command for the next hour. In the meantime, here’s a personal favorite of mine: it’s an oldie but a goody, and trust me when I say that no night is complete without it. Ta.”

Kravitz flips off his mic and lets the queued up track play, sitting back in his chair with a huff. He doesn’t _actually_ have a particular soft spot for- what is this, The Beatles? He’s heard the song a hundred times by now but still doesn’t really know, and honestly doesn't care. It’s almost always the same handful of overplayed English groups that he can never keep straight. The repetition has gotten so bad that he’s started living for the instrumental hour, and that’s not a low he ever thought he’d sink to.

Kravitz is _not_ a music snob, truly. It’s in his job description, his obligatory persona for this radio station, and okay, yes he’s a musician but he doesn't remember who sings what or when it happened. His personal playlist has Gregorian chant right between Ariana Grande and Richard Wagner, and he doesn’t actually give a single shit. He likes what he likes, dammit, there doesn’t have to be a label for it!

He’s pulled from his internal monologue by the shrill beep of the office phone, so he sighs and puts his stupid fake cockney accent back on and smiles too wide as he switches to his headset. “KRVD, your best and only station for sophisticated songs day or night. Caller, what’s your request?”

“Good evening, laddie!” A voice warbles from the receiver. “Long time listener, first time caller here. I was hoping for something very specific. You wouldn’t happen to have the theme from Friends, would you?”

Kravitz- Kravitz blinks. “Excuse me?”

“You know, the- _so no one told you life was_ -“

“I know the song,” Kravitz cuts in. “Why would I have it on this station? We do classical and English postmodernism.”

“Ah ah!” The caller- a man with a frankly _terrible_ Scottish accent- tuts at Kravitz. “Leeman Kessler has _very_ discerning tastes, and that’s what I want to hear. You said KRVD was at the command of the listener. Or was that all just talk?”

Before Kravitz can even try to come up with a response to that, someone on the other end of the line shouts and the caller audibly cringes. “Ugh, I’ve gotta go, break’s over. I’ll be waiting for my song, lad!” And then he hangs up.

The song is almost over, and no one else has called with a request. Kravitz thinks, fuck it. He missed his evening coffee today (because yes, apparently the everything machine _was_ broken at the closest Starbucks) and he needs something to shake this up before he dies of boredom. He queues up the theme song from Friends.

If he does the claps, Leeman doesn’t have to know.

* * *

“KRVD, your best and only station for sophisticated songs day or night. Caller, what’s your request?”

“Hey there thug, ‘sup? Long time listener, first time caller here. You got any T-Swift? The really good angry kind?”

Kravitz chokes on his sip of coffee. Oh god, it’s _him_ again. It’s a different terrible accent, but it’s definitely him. “Leeman?”

“Who? Naw, man, name’s Li’l Jerry! You can call me Li’l Jerry. So is that a ‘no’ on _Picture to Burn_?”

“I feel the need to remind- mention- that we do classical and-“

“English postmodernism, yeah, I totally get-” A whirring noise in the background of the call muffles his voice and ‘Jerry’ curses low under his breath. A door closes and there’s a definitely unaffected sigh before the bad New Yorker (?) accent is back full force. “Please? I’m havin’ a train wreck of a day and I need an excuse to scream in country, ya feel?”

It’s because he’s bored, Kravitz thinks. It’s because still, no one else has called with a request. It’s also a little bit because if he has to play the pre-set songs one more time he’s going to chuck his shitty coffee at the wall.

It’s definitely not out of personal curiosity that he asks, “Is there anyone you’d like me to dedicate it to? That tune’s a real bridge burner, innit?”

There’s a full five seconds of silence, and Kravitz worries that he’s crossed some sort of line.

“... Sazed,” the caller whispers. “It’s for Sazed.”

And then he hangs up, and Kravitz pulls up the song. His accent slips into a true sneer when he dedicates the song, and he hopes that Jerry Kessler feels vindicated.

* * *

“KRVD, your best and only station for sophisticated songs day or night. Caller, what’s your request?”

“Yeah, uh. Hi?” A high, crackling voice emits from the speaker and for the first time that night, Kravitz’s smile is real. “Long time listener, first time caller here.”

It’s been more than a week since the last call, and Kravitz can’t deny that he feels a little relieved that his favorite troll has recovered some of his spark. “Oh really? What’s your name, mate?”

“My name,” the caller drawls, seeming to think for only a second, “is Greg. Yes. My name’s Tuff Greg, and I just _love_ being straight.”

Kravitz digs his fingernails into his own thigh to smother the laughter. Really, that was the best he could come up with? “Awright then, Tuff Greg. What can I do ya for this fine evenin’?”

“Well, the shop is completely empty and I’ve got maybe five minutes until I get another college kid camping out next to the outlet. Play me something trashy and highly inappropriate to dance on the bar to?”

“Gimme somethin’ to go on here, love. My gut instinct says Pat Benatar and Madonna, would either of those suit your fancy?”

‘Greg’ sounds absolutely delighted. “Madonna? _Like a Virgin,_ fuck yeah! Wait, shit- FUCK, sorry- this ain’t live, right?” His accent warps drastically in his panic, and Kravitz isn’t sure if that’s his real voice or not but he finds he wouldn’t be disappointed if it was.

“No worries, ‘Greg.’ The call’s recorded, not playing live. I just splice requests in with the soundboard.”

“Thank fuck.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty handy when you get a few trolls. Or just one really persistent one, as the case may be.”

“I haven’t a _clue_ what you could mean by that.”

Kravitz scoffs. “Course not. Go get ready for your dance number, Greg. Song’s over in thirty.” He hesitates. This is usually where he hangs up, but… “Love being straight, huh?”

“Listen pal, there are two things I say to the wife when I jump into bed. The first, natch, is ‘make room for Greg!’ And the second?” He trails off expectantly, and Kravitz doesn’t know where the sudden coldness in his chest came from but he doesn’t like it.

“I love being straight?” Kravitz guesses, glum.

“Oh, you poor _darling_. Can’t say I relate.” Greg cackles and hangs up.

Kravitz absolutely loses it, laughing so hard and so bodily that his empty coffee cup falls off the desk. He gets the track playing with seconds to spare and speech is far beyond him right now, so he imagines Li’l Greg Kessler standing on the counter in a cafe, bowing to the breathless, guffawing applause Kravitz sends over the airwaves.

* * *

 

“Now hear me out- after the sixth one, you drop in just one _It’s Not Unusual.”_

“Look, ‘Angus-‘“

“Yep, Angus McDonald! That is totally my name in case anyone, included the police, asks.”

“I gave you the Rick Roll, but I am _not_ doing the Salt and Pepper Diner bit.”

“Aw, beans. I was hoping you wouldn’t know that one.”

“Everyone knows that one, love.”

Kravitz gives him the _What’s New Pussycat_ anyway _,_ but just _one._ He calls back again just long enough to say, “Aw. You _do_ care.”

* * *

Raven only brings it up once, on one of her rare nighttime visits to the station. “So I hear you’ve been branching out,” she says without looking up from her clipboard. “Should we rebrand the all-request hour into top 40’s and 80’s pop?”

Kravitz flushes and tries to hide it behind a sip of his mocha. “Just feeding the trolls, boss. I can stop.” He really doesn’t want to stop.

She shakes her head and keeps walking, waving over her shoulder. “It’s fine. People think it’s ‘ironic.’ Apparently Dadaism is back in vogue. Keep up the good work, Krav.”

“Thanks, boss.”

* * *

 

Eventually, Kravitz gets a night off. He celebrates with a rare treat for him, some reading time at the somewhat pricey cafe a few blocks from his apartment. He usually gets his fix at the Starbucks near the station, but Dav’s is open later than Starbucks, which is several kinds of amazing for someone with an unconventional work schedule.

And besides, he’s missed the place- the last time he tried to go they were closed for some mysterious reason. There were rumors, of course- someone got fired and unveiled health code violations or something, said there was something there making people sick. It turned out to be nonsense, and Kravitz for one was glad to hear it.

Even if it didn’t suit his schedule, Kravitz likes the atmosphere here much more than the typical coffee shops. It’s warm inside with intimate lighting, easy listening music, and more sofas than chairs. And god, do they have the best pastries in town. Kravitz’s mouth waters the instant he opens the door, his eyes locking greedily on the array of muffins and iced cakes.

“Be right with you!” A woman calls out to him as she dashes into the back through a door at the right side of the bar. She’s carrying something hot, and Kravitz is delighted to see fresh peanut butter cookies on a tray. That settles his drink order, then.

He stands patiently at the counter, basking in the warmth. Everything is cozy here, from the plush upholstery of the couches to the soft carpet leading up to a the cafe’s side stage. He’s surprised to find the place empty- maybe people haven’t heard that they opened back up? It’d be such a shame if that were the case. Maybe he could let something slip on the show?

As if summoned by his thoughts, the song currently playing over the speakers changes, and he hears what sounds like the opening of his pre-recorded set reverberating through the shop. That’s odd- he’s never noticed KRVD playing here before, not even on their occasional open mic nights. And if a slam poetry event isn’t the time to play pretentious British music, then what is?

“Sorry about that! It’s just me at the moment, since my _dear_ brother is taking his time on his break.” The same woman comes out again, brushing excess flour from her hands onto her red apron. She swings a carefully plaited blue braid over her shoulder to reveal a name tag that says Lup and, huh. That’s a different name. Sounds like something a tenacious caller could make up, he thinks with a chuckle.

Kravitz smiles in a way he hopes comes across as reassuring. “It’s no trouble at all. You’ve got a lovely place, it’d be a shame to just rush in and out.”

One of Lup’s eyebrows rises all the way to her teal hairline, and too late Kravitz realizes he’s slipped into his work voice out of habit. _Shit._ He’s either going to have to keep it up forever or never come here again _._ And since he really loves their scones, he supposes it’ll have to be the former. At least the place is empty, so no one else can witness his mortification.

“Of course,” Lup says with a smirk. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you want. I just hope you don’t mind the music choice, my brother insists on breaking the rules at this time of night.”

Sweat coats Kravitz’s palms, and he wipes them inconspicuously on the front of his pants. “Oh?”

“Yeah, usually the boss has this like, _opera_ station he wants us to play in here. But it’s not opera-opera, it’s like rock-opera? I didn’t think that was a thing, but I’m sure you know that classical and English postmodernism isn’t the most niche music station out there.”

She knows who he is _._ Fucking _shit._ It’s not like he’s a major celebrity, but it’s never not awkward when he gets recognized. In a place like this, all bookishness and slam poetry, of _course_ he’s bound to run into someone who actually _cares_ about the stupid genres he plays.

Lup laps his discomfort up like heavy cream.  “But enough about that,” she croons. “So what’ll it be, _love?”_

Kravitz wipes his hands again before reaching for his wallet. “Er, the largest hot chocolate you have, please. And two of the- those peanut butter cookies smell _divine_ , I’ve got to try them.”

For some reason that just makes Lup smile wider. “That’ll be six dollars. Stay tuned for your regularly scheduled receipt?”

“Oh God,” is all Kravitz can say as he hands over the cash. Lup hands him his receipt and shoos him away with an order to “Chill man, I’m just messing with you.” She writes his order on the side of the cup with a marker and lays it by the drink station before stomping over to the door and pounding on it. “Break’s over babe, get out here and work your magic!”

“Jesus _Christ,_ I’m coming! Where’s the damn fire?”

Kravitz, already settling down with the book he brought with him, perks up at the sound of the new voice. Lilting, male, and a little bit familiar, he finds himself smiling on reflex and watching intently to see who it’s coming from.

The man who enters from the door on the right is the spitting image of Lup, right down to the smudges of flour on his cheeks and forehead. His hair is dyed a flattering pink that matches his red apron rather nicely. The strings of said apron blur as he prepares to tie them one handed, slipping a phone into his pocket with the other. Kravitz can’t make out what his name tag says, and determines to do that once his order is ready.

“It should be under your _ass,_ brother dear. We’ve got a customer,” Lup shoots back at him.

The man doesn’t even spare Kravitz a glance, just looks at the order on the cup and starts working. The sound of a steamer fills the room and cuts Kravitz off from their bickering banter. He does, however, hear his own recorded voice over the speakers as one song leads into another. It’s an unremarkable bit of speech, just enough to let listeners know what they’re hearing, but Kravitz jumps all the same.

The steamer cuts off and the man sighs dramatically. As he pours the hot milk into the cocoa he says, “You can turn it back to Dav’s dad opera whenever. He’s not there tonight.”

“Who?” Lup asks, all wide eyed innocence.

“You know damn well who,” he complains. “The DJ, the one with the _clearly_ fake accent. It’s his night off or something, the phones go straight through to voicemail.”

Kravitz is going to _die._ This guy is probably a major enthusiast of the genre, if Lup gives him away he’s going to have to leave or get grilled on his opinions of fucking _U2,_ he _can’t_ go through with that again-

“We’re gonna be stuck with one pretentious shithole station or another all night anyway, so we might as well go with the one that won’t get us written up,” the barista continues, and Kravitz relaxes. Not an Anglophile after all, then.

Lup loudly crinkles the bag she’s shoving cookies into and nearly yells, “Who was it gonna be this time? Bo Diddly asking for _Wagon Wheel?_ Avi for _Wrecking Ball?”_

The barista snorts a laugh and pops a lid on the finished drink. “You know I don’t match them up, Lulu. Taako goes with his gut.” He finally walks up to the edge of the counter and reads out the order on the cup. “One large hot chocolate for-“ And he freezes.

Kravitz can relate. He hasn’t been able to draw a breath for the past several moment, Lup’s words spinning through his mind right along with the blaringly loud concerto over his head. But he snaps himself out of it, jerks to his feet a beat too late.

“I believe that’s mine,” he says, still in full work mode. “I haven’t the foggiest what she wrote there, but…”

The barista- Taako, that’s how he spells it- blushes so hard his face is closer in hue to his apron than his hair. “Well, fuck.”

“Indeed.” And because he really is curious, “May I?”

Taako nods mutely and holds out the cup. Written on it is Kravitz’s order, and in the slot for the name Lup has scribbled “The KRVD guy you’ve been flirting with for like two months.”

Kravitz’s mind breaks. “Your sister has very tiny handwriting.”

“She really fucking does? It’s not natural, I keep telling her.” Taako is still completely red but it’s admirable that he’s trying just as hard as Kravitz is to not make this weird.

Speaking of. Kravitz lets himself speak normally to say, “I’m sorry, do you mind if I drop the accent? It’s like… it’s really, really hard to keep it up and when I’m not on the job it just feels weird doing it. Is- is that okay?”

If Taako has any sort of gut reaction to hearing how Kravitz really sounds, he doesn’t show it. And even though they’ve only just met in person, Kravitz feels like he would know.

Finally, Taako smiles. “Yeah, of course,” he says before dropping his voice about three octaves. “ _As long as I can drop my accent too~”_

And just as he has before, when he was just a caller with a weird accent, Taako makes Kravitz laugh himself breathless. “So,” he gasps when he can. “Just making sure, because I thought I had it. Your real name _isn’t_ Justin?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” He manages to sound very serious until Taako snickers into his hand and they both tailspin into more laughter over how ridiculous this whole thing is.

Kravitz isn’t a music snob, but he does know music and the kinds of people who enjoy it. He doesn’t know Taako completely- not yet- but he knows certain things about him. He knows Taako’s not straight. He knows that he’s got a lighthearted sense of humor and isn’t afraid to make fun of himself. He knows that Taako belts Taylor Swift after a breakup and dances to Madonna when he’s alone, and that’s a start.

That’s a really fucking good start.


End file.
